


Q’s Christmas Wish

by Celyan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Christmas Miracles, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celyan/pseuds/Celyan
Summary: Dear Santa, he had written, a half-empty glass of wine in one hand and the fingers of the other practically flying over his tablet’s keyboard,setting aside for a moment the fact that I don’t actually believe in you, there is something I would ask of you if given the chance. I know miracles aren’t exactly in your job description, but I’m perhaps in need of one, either way.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 5
Kudos: 204
Collections: Mi6 Cafe Prompt Fills





	Q’s Christmas Wish

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt from the anonymous prompt list, for MI6 Cafe’s December challenge:
> 
> _A Christmas Miracle? AU - Q wished upon a star (or wrote a joke-y email to Santa Claus?? something similar) that he’d get Bond for Christmas (either back alive from a mission, or just interested in him) - the next day Bond arrives, backs him up against a door and goes on to act out one of Q's workplace daydreams - cue happiness and panic: IS iT REAL? (is Santa real?) Is Q magic?_
> 
> Thank you Souffle and Christine for the beta reading, encouragement, and coming up with the title.

Q’s not at all sure why he did it. 

It’s not like he believes in these things, nor is he superstitious. Santa Claus has never been real to him, and stars are in no way, shape, or form magical or divine or anthropomorphised in his mind. He’s not even feeling especially desperate or lonely. Not really, in any case. He's a firm believer in everything just happening, without there being a higher force or any particular reason as a deciding factor behind it.

He has been feeling a little gloomy lately, yes, that much is true. But it’s not like his life isn’t full of uncertainties and instability, what with him being the Quartermaster of MI-6 and all. He’s also made his peace with the fact that he’s in love with someone he’d do much better to ignore instead; after all, Bond is a double oh agent and his adventures with the fairer sex are both numerous and well documented throughout Six. 

But Q wouldn’t be Q if he wasn’t stubborn, and besides, he doesn’t have time for a relationship anyway, so really, it has all worked out fine for him, has it not? Bond will never ask anything of him that he cannot give (an exploding pen notwithstanding, and even then Q can see himself caving and building the bloody thing for him, eventually) and he’ll never need to struggle to share his time with work, his cats, and a significant other. It’s a win-win situation if he’s ever seen one. 

So why, then, did he do it? 

Why did he, in a fit of madness or inebriation or recklessness or what have you, look up at the darkening sky of the cold December evening and, upon seeing the very first star of the night, make that simple, stupid,  _ silly _ little wish of his? 

And why did he, upon reaching his flat afterwards and after making his way to the sofa with both cats in tow, take out his personal tablet, do a bit of digging to find the correct email address, and write that short, fanciful,  _ foolish _ message to someone he doesn’t even believe in?

_ Dear Santa, _ he had written, a half-empty glass of wine in one hand and the fingers of the other practically flying over his tablet’s keyboard,  _ setting aside for a moment the fact that I don’t actually believe in you, there is something I would ask of you if given the chance. I know miracles aren’t exactly in your job description, but I’m perhaps in need of one, either way. There’s someone that I’d need returned home, someone dear to me despite every instinct of mine screaming for me to run; but hearts, eh? What can one do but sigh and learn to live with it? But I digress. In any case, this someone has a worrying habit of disappearing when the situation gets tough (or, sometimes, even when it doesn’t), and he’s a valuable asset to the place I work for. So if there’s anything you could do, anything at all, to bring him home, I would be forever in your debt. And I’m rather good with computers, so I wouldn’t be opposed to it at all if, say, you’d need help with surveillance. After all, keeping track of all of those children and finding out who’s been naughty or nice cannot be easy in this day and age. Best regards, Q _

Bond is still wherever it is that he’s gone this time after finishing his mission (and he’s ditched his radio while he’s at it, if only so that Q hasn't got a way to keep track of him - because of M’s orders, naturally) when Q checks the agent’s status once he’s finished with the email - for old habits die hard and cats, much like old dogs, are not exactly known for learning new tricks with any particular ease. But Q’s used to it, he really is, so he doesn’t even bother sighing, simply logs off and pushes the tablet away in favour of getting up and going to refill his glass. 

He’s not one to overindulge, however, so he sips the golden liquid at a more sedate pace, now. His thoughts still remain with Bond, but when don’t they? He’s learnt to live with that, as well, and has become quite a professional in pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind when his focus is needed elsewhere, so by the time the glass is empty Q is back to the good old strategy of ignorance, avoidance, and detachment that has served him so well for such a long time. 

He then goes to the kitchen to fix dinner for both himself and the cats, and afterwards heads to bed for some reading before sleep finally claims him. 

*

The next day Q goes back to work, as one does when it’s almost Christmas and one has spent the better part of the week guiding an annoying agent through a mission that has gone pear-shaped more than once, and said agent hasn’t even had the good grace to come back home. Instead, he has done one of his infamous disappearing acts while Q gets to be the one to sort out the mess left behind completely on his own.

Yes, he might be feeling a tad bitter about it, but he’s got every bloody right to. So there. 

Q greets his minions and enters his office, his thoughts fully focused on removing his outer layers and getting a mug of tea to start his day the right way, and so he fails to notice that someone has already beaten him to it. He uncurls his scarf from around his neck, takes off his beloved parka, and gets as far as hanging both on the stand next to the filing cabinet before his mind registers the still steaming Scrabble mug situated next to his closed laptop. 

”What the…?” is all Q gets out when a shadow moves suddenly at the edge of his vision, and before he quite realises what has happened, his back hits the closed door of his office and he feels rather than sees a firm chest snug against his own, a pair of slightly chapped lips covering his, and an arm wrapping itself around his waist while a gentle palm cradles his head, protecting it from hitting the hard wood of his door. 

Q flails for a moment before his other senses catch on, as his eyes had automatically closed upon being attacked. The scent of a familiar cologne filling his nostrils is what finally clues him in on the identity of his would-be assailant, and Q relaxes into the kiss. His hands find their way to Bond’s shoulders, at last, and although his grip is light he is doing his very best to kiss Bond back with just as much enthusiasm. 

The fact that this right here is one of his many fantasies concerning this particular double oh agent does certainly not escape Q’s notice. Though to be fair, he never did imagine quite an attack-snog like this - in all honesty, his imagination pales in comparison. Q has yet to decide whether it’s a good or a bad thing. 

The kiss goes on long enough that Q almost manages to forget to wonder just what had caused it.

Almost, but not quite, as eventually they both need to accept the fact that from time to time, breathing is highly recommended if one plans to continue living. 

Bond is the one to - reluctantly - pull away from the kiss, though he moves his head only enough to be able to rest his cheek against Q’s while they both take in much needed gulps of air. 

“Bond… You’re back,” Q says when he can no longer remain quiet. He feels silly for pointing out the obvious, but the kiss they just shared seems to have robbed him of his higher brain functions. He can only hope that it won’t be permanent. 

“Did you miss me?” Bond seems perfectly comfortable remaining exactly where he is, pressed snugly against Q with his arm around his waist. The fingers of the hand cupping Q’s head begin to run through his hair gently, and Q lets out a soft sigh and shivers at the feeling. 

“You might have not disappeared the way you did,” Q says instead of replying to that question. It’s not like it wasn’t a rhetorical one, anyway. “And you didn’t have to thrown away your radio, 007. I would have appreciated that.”

“I might have, Quartermaster,” Bond agrees mildly and nuzzles at the side of his neck. “But I had things to take care of.” 

“Of course you did,” Q says, trying his best to not appear quite as affected as he is by Bond acting like his more affectionate cat, Orion, with all of her headbutting and licking his face and everything else.

Bond’s next move better not be to lick his face, though. That’s where Q drew the line. 

Well, for now, anyway.

While Q has been busy pondering the similarities between Bond and his cats, the man in question has progressed into leaving tiny little bites onto the skin of his neck. Q cannot truthfully say that he minds all that much, but he is aware that he ought to stop Bond nevertheless. For one thing, they’re still at his office, in full view of the security cameras (never mind that Q can easily delete any incriminating footage, it’s the principle of the thing); and for the other, he has absolutely no idea what has brought on this strange - if pleasant - new behaviour of Bond’s. 

So Q clears his throat and says, “Bond?” 

“Yes, Q?” Bond murmurs against the skin he’d just been biting, causing Q to shiver anew. 

“Why, exactly, are you suddenly kissing me?” He pauses to gather his thoughts after yet another teasing bite nips his skin. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it, but I  _ am _ curious to hear why now of all possible times.” 

”Because I’ve been wanting to do it for a long time,” Bond replies, pulling back enough to be able to look him in the eye. “Also…”

“Also?” Q blinks, and Bond gestures upwards. 

”Mistletoe.”

Q looks up, and yes, there really appears to be a real, live mistletoe hanging from the ceiling right in front of the door. 

_ “That _ was  _ not _ there when I left last night,” he feels compelled to point out. 

”You’re not wrong.”

”Then how did it end up there? Or should I be asking,  _ why _ did it end up there?” 

”Well obviously someone put it there.”

”Obviously,” Q echoes and keeps on looking at Bond. ”It was you, wasn't it?” That would explain why none of his minions warned him about it when he came in - or about Bond’s return, for that matter.

”I can neither confirm nor deny such an allegation,” Bond replies. The kiss he plants on the corner of Q’s lips, however, speaks for itself. 

”Why?” Q asks, because sometimes short and simple does the trick better than anything else. 

“It’s Christmas,” Bond replies. “Seemed only appropriate.” 

Q gets the feeling that that’s not quite everything Bond has to say about it, and he wonders if he can get to the bottom of it. But later. “Technically, it’s only the 23rd,” he points out in any case. 

“True,” Bond acknowledges, “but I was hoping that you wouldn’t actually be at the office on Christmas Eve.” 

“I hadn’t planned on being here tomorrow, no,” Q admits. “Well, unless 004 manages to cock things up again.” Q knows that these things happen, after all, no matter how good the agent in question is; and while 004 is good, he’s certainly no Bond. 

Bond chuckles and nuzzles at Q’s cheek with his own stubbly one, and Q shivers. His arms tighten around Bond’s neck, which makes Bond hum appreciatively and turn his head to capture Q’s lips with his again. 

This time Q is an equal participant in the kiss from the very first moments, and it’s an even lovelier kiss than the first one. Q keeps his eyes closed and his arms wrapped around Bond’s neck and surrenders to the kiss. 

Lack of air is, however, an eventuality, and even the most loveliest of kisses must ultimately end. Q pulls away slowly and obligingly tilts his head for Bond to kiss his way down to his throat. 

He’s still wondering what exactly Bond had been up to between the end of the mission and his sudden reappearance. Bond had only said that he’d had things to take care of, and Q’s curious about what they could have been. Well, perhaps one of them had been the acquiring of the mistletoe, which, yes, he can now see Bond not wanting him to find out about too soon. This all wouldn’t have been much of a surprise otherwise.

He’ll ask Bond about it, he decides, but not right now. Now they’re at work and while this has been absolutely lovely, Q is fully aware that they both have things to do that do not include kissing against his office door. 

(Though that certainly should be included, in Q’s opinion.)

“Bond?”

“Won’t you call me James?” 

“James,” Q amends. It feels strange to call Bond by his first name, but also right. Strangely right, even, Q thinks and smothers a giggle against Bond’s shoulder. 

“Yes, love?” 

“Um,” Q says and blinks, not having expected to hear that. “You’ve not been to see M yet, am I correct?” 

“You are.”

“And am I also correct in assuming that even though you don’t have your radio, you do have the rest of your kit with you? Well, what’s left of it, anyway.”

Bond nods. “I left it at your desk.”

Q turns his head to look at his desk, and indeed, Bond’s kit rests there next to his no longer steaming Scrabble mug. How he missed it before is anyone’s guess, but Q firmly blames Bond and his mouth for distracting him so thoroughly. 

“I shall look at it momentarily,” Q tells Bond. 

“Is that your way of telling me to leave you alone, Quartermaster?” Bond asks, pretending to sound hurt. Or at least Q hopes he’s just pretending. 

“It’s my way of telling you that we both have obligations to take care of,  _ James,” _ Q replies. “And much as I have enjoyed this, we are at work and in full view of the cameras right now.”

“I am aware of that,” Bond says, sounding smug now. “R will be dealing with the evidence, and I may have requested a copy for myself.” 

“Bond!” 

Bond just chuckles and kisses Q gently on the lips. “Don’t worry, love, I’m sure she’ll have one made for you too.” 

Q groans. “Not what I meant, and you know that!” 

Bond just smiles. Q wants to simultaneously push him away and pull him even closer, but in the end he does neither. 

“So, can I take you out to lunch today? And dinner, after work?” Bond then asks, now more serious. 

Q blinks but nods. “I would like that, yes.” 

“Excellent. I’ll be back after noon.” Then, finally, Bond pulls away from Q, who shivers at the feeling of losing his warmth. He has no idea why his office suddenly feels so chilly. 

“Are you cold, love?” Bond asks. “I made you tea, I hope it’s still warm,” he adds and glances at Q’s desk with the beginnings of a frown on his forehead. Q immediately wants to reach out and kiss it away. 

“Thank you, James,” he says softly and walks to his desk to pick up the mug and take a sip from it. It’s brewed to his exact preferences, and while it’s no longer hot it’s still warm enough to comfortably drink. Bond looks at him and his expression clears when Q takes another bigger sip. 

“I shall see you later, then,” Bond says fondly. “Try not to get lost in your work, love, or I may be forced to kidnap you for our lunch date.”

Q snorts. “I’d like to see you try.” 

Bond winks at him. “You just might.” Then he finally turns to the door, opens it and steps out into the branch proper, leaving Q to drink his tea and think back over the last fifteen or so minutes. 

He’s still not exactly sure what had truly happened, let alone  _ why _ it had happened, but he’s ready to take it as one of those things that Bond just  _ does. _

Because really, it cannot have anything to do with the email he’d sent. Or the star he’d wished upon.

Can it? 


End file.
